Lord of the Fries

Yellow swords dipped in blood.

Commodity draws the young close

and salts their edgy words.

No potato famine.

Just processed potentates

raising voices.

Used to be the pub

where commoners draw


Now it is fountain drinks

and talks of Ja Ja Binks.

Thoughts pressed between

finger and thumb.

Pushed against check and gum.

A pile of pick-up sticks

like wood on a bon fire.

No teen is an island.

No poetry protection.

Say what you say

until the fry in the bottom

is pulled from peer pressure.

Once and Again. Boundless.


One more book,

one more song,

one more walk

in the spirit to see

One who swallows me.


The search continues for

Someone I have already found.

This quest of authenticity

resurrects dead poets,

theologians, and sages.


“The heavens’ embroidered cloths”

lie as dreams under Your feet.

I will tread softly on Your dreams.


You said it was all straw

yet I will gather the stalks

you left lie.


I will see the invisible fecundity

in the visible things

set in the dimmed light.


I shadow


searchers of light.


Neil Diamond was lost

between two shores

to find out who he was.


Bruce Cockburn’s dance

with the everywhere truth

and the grace to lay it bare.


Michael W. Smith points to

the flesh and blood

of the I Am Love.


Then the great Author

names the lead

the Word.


A book,

a song,

a walk

in the cool of the day

and You show up.